


You Can't Take It Off

by camando



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Face-Fucking, Facial, Fix-It of Sorts, Intimacy, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Rough Sex, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28090758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camando/pseuds/camando
Summary: Set in S2E7 The Believer after Mayfeld and The Mandalorian are picked up by Fett's ship. Kind of a fix it fic? They sure did skip to them having changed out of the trooper uniforms, breezing over the fact that the Mandalorian put the Beskar helmet back on, a thing the Creed explicitly says not to do (but I'm sure they'll deal with the ramifications of this next episode, if not later). Don't really ship these two but their dynamic was AMAZING this episode. Lots of themes of religion and overcoming hypermasculine bullshit in this one. Oh and lots of sex. Also excessive insulting of storm trooper armour.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 5
Kudos: 149





	1. After The Mission

The ship lands on a clearing in the well forested mountains. Mayfeld and the Mandalorian look to each other and sigh in relief. Fett emerges from the cockpit. “We wait here for Cara and Fennec. There might be more TIE Fighters looking for us. I’m going to check the engine while we wait. This old ship doesn’t handle like she used to. You two change out of those ridiculous uniforms.”

The exit opened and shut behind Fett. The other two raised from their seats.

"Okay, Mando. You take the cockpit. I'll change in here,” says Mayfeld, unbuckling the grey trooper chest plate and dropping it onto the floor of the cargo hold.

There’s no response.

He turns to see the Mandalorian staring at the bag of beskar armour propped up against one of the seats on the other side of the cargo hold, his helmet sitting on top of it.

“Mando?” says Mayfeld.

“I haven’t broken the Creed yet,” comes the low tired voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Mandalorian Creed. You can take the helmet off any time, but you can’t put it back on.” He turns to Mayfeld, the boots of the trooper uniform heavy on the metal floor. “I haven’t done anything wrong yet, technically. But if I put it on again, if I continue calling myself a Mandalorian, I'll be going against everything, all of it!”

“But you take it off all the time, don’t you?”

The Mandalorian tilts the trooper helmet quizzically.

“Well unless you eat and drink from a straw, you have to take that thing off at least once a day. And I saw. You're rough around the edges but not ‘I've never cleaned or shaved my face’ rough.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, turning his head away.

"You need to take the helmet off to survive. No different from today, Mando.”

“Stop calling me that,” snaps the voice behind the helmet.

Mayfeld throws his hands up in nervous fury. “What? It's not like you got a proper name. You want me to keep calling you brown eyes?”

The air in the cargo hold is still for a moment and Mayfeld retracts his hands back, worried he’s said something wrong.

“I didn't know that until today.”

“That you have brown eyes?”

The Mandalorian fidgets, adjusting the terrible plastic armour. “They don't exactly hang mirrors around the covert.” He sighs. “I do have a name… Din djarin.”

Mayfeld cocks his head sceptically and takes a step closer. “I thought you people didn't use names.”

“No. Or at least that's what I thought.” He shakes his head. “But I was a foundling. You can't wipe something like that away, not entirely. I can’t forget my name, and you can’t forget my face.”

Mayfeld laughs heartily. “With enough drink I can give it a good shot.”

The Mandalorian makes no move to that. Mayfeld clears his throat.

“You must really care about this kid, to do this for him. To put it all on the line for him.”

“I do,” says the Mandalorian, the words thick in his throat

Mayfeld looks down. “I'm sorry, for how I acted when I met him. I had to defend my position on the team, you know. All I got is my fast talking and a good aim. You gotta be tough to survive in this galaxy, all the time. You know what I mean,” he says, trying to wave away his own emotion with a hand.

The Mandalorian steps closer. “I do,” he says, and Mayfeld looks up, surprised to hear the honesty in his voice.

Even under the ugly trooper uniform the man’s strength is obvious. His muscular shoulders form a striking silhouette Mayfeld thinks he could recognise anywhere now, and his thighs are… Mayfeld looks up quickly but catches a glimpse of the man’s stubbled neck between his collar and helmet, and suddenly he’s looking down again, face hot.

“I don't mean to be rude, really, but what do your lot think about, you know…” Mayfeld’s words drift away.

“About what?” says the Mandalorian, the same earnestness in his voice.

Mayfeld reaches out suddenly, worried he’ll lose his courage. He grabs the Mandalorian’s gloved hand. It's an intimate, innocent gesture. One that makes the two men tense immediately. They stay there for a moment, staring at their intertwined fingers. It seems so silly at first, for a soldier to be so shyly grabbing at another. But they slowly relax into their skin, when neither of them flinches away.

“The higher-ups didn’t approve of it, you know, but back in my Empire days troopers would sometimes… you know people got needs and with the adrenaline of battle…” Mayfeld’s words are failing him for the first time in a long while. “And they had to have made children on Mandalore somehow.”

“Maybe that's why there's so few of us in the Watch,” says the Mandalorian, somewhere else.

“Uh,” Mayfeld fumbles.

The Mandalorian shakes his head again, more violently this time. “I don't know what to believe in anymore. The Creed wasn't this complicated when I was young.”

Mayfeld takes a deep breath, steadies himself. “Nothing ever is.”

Mayfeld clutches the Mandalorian’s hand tighter and looks up, searching for permission in eyes he can’t see. The Mandalorian doesn’t react, so he starts pulling off the other man’s gloves, one finger at a time. The glove falls away and Mayfeld caresses the rough calloused hand underneath.

He grips the Mandalorian’s wrist tight and pushes him into the wall of the cargo hold. The Mandalorian groans sharply at the impact. Mayfeld’s forehead leans against the Mandalorian’s helmet as he unbuckles the man’s belt. Mayfeld’s hands spread underneath the other man’s uniform shirt, his breathing quick underneath his hands, his trails of hair thick.

Mayfeld feels the Mandalorian hard against his thigh. He hitches down his pants and takes his thick cock in hand, surrounded by a mass of dark hair. Mayfeld strokes it firmly and the Mandalorian grips him tightly, holding him close. Beads of precum drip from the head and the Mandalorian moans in short erratic gasps.

But Mayfeld’s eyes are elsewhere, on the bulky plastic mask up against his face. 

Mayfeld suddenly grips the helmet with both his hands, and the Mandalorian makes a sharp needful moan.

“Please let me take this stupid trooper helmet off you,” says Mayfeld.

The Mandalorian nods in his hands. Mayfeld lifts it off and it tumbles aside. He looks into those soulful brown eyes. Tears have dried onto his face in thick streaks. Mayfeld holds up a hand as if to wipe the marks away, and when the Mandalorian doesn’t flinch away he cups the man’s stubbled jawline. The Mandalorian reaches up to the hand, closing his eyes to relish the touch, and moves to press his lips into Mayfeld’s palm.

Mayfeld can’t resist and pulls down the taller man by the back of the neck to kiss him, both their stubbled faces harsh against the other’s. The Mandalorian deepens the kiss as he steps forward, forcing Mayfeld back as he grabs him by the shoulders.

The Mandalorian pushes him down into one of the seats and Mayfeld looks up at him, panting. He can’t help but stare up at those deep brown eyes. An urge strikes him.

He tugs at the Mandalorian’s uniform and the other man takes the cue to kneels down while Mayfeld looses his own uniform and frees his firm cock with the other hand. The man kneels between his legs, brown eyes firm on his erection. Mayfeld runs his hands through The Mandalorian’s tousled black hair. He holds it firm and the Mandalorian’s mouth looses from the sensation.

Mayfeld shoves the Mandalorian’s face down onto his cock. The Mandalorian panics at the size of it in his mouth at first but soon he’s moving with Mayfeld’s hands, taking in Mayfeld in with quick motions and tight lips, moaning against Mayfeld’s flesh.

One hand still pulling at the Mandalorian’s hair, Mayfeld sinks his own fingers into his ass, the stretching sensation doubling his pleasure. He pushes himself deeper, harder into the Mandalorian’s throat.

Mayfeld pulls the Mandalorian back suddenly, spit dripping from his bottom lip. His eyes are eagerly on Mayfeld’s cock, his mouth still open ready for more. His dark eyes flash up to Mayfeld’s and a rope of cum shoots across his face. The Mandalorian pokes out a flattened tongue as two more paint his face, the white mess seeping down his olive skin, through his dark stubble, down his lips and tongue. A drop of it sticks to his eyelashes. 

Mayfeld pushes the Mandalorian backwards onto his ass with his foot, The Mandalorian’s back hitting the seat behind him. Mayfeld kicks off his pants. He lowers to the ground on his knees and hitches down the Mandalorian’s pants further. Mayfeld straddles those thick strong thighs, those prominent olive hips.

He spreads his cheeks as he lowers himself onto the Mandalorian’s still hard cock. He raises at the size of him at first, then slowly lowers himself. The two moan at the sensation as the Mandalorian fills Mayfeld.

Mayfeld puts his arms around the Mandalorian’s neck, pressing himself closer and looking up behind him, his spent cock between them. Quickening, Mayfeld bounces on the Mandalorian’s cock. Mayfeld’s pace continues, furious, desperate.

“Easy,” says the Mandalorian through gritted teeth.

Mayfeld slows, his movements harder. The two men moan in tandem each time Mayfeld’s tightness reaches the base of his cock and the Mandalorian’s head hits its deepest point.

The Mandalorian grips Mayfeld’s ass as he tremors, groaning, and Mayfeld is filled with his hot cum. Slowly, he raises himself up and cum drips down his thighs and onto the Mandalorian’s.

Mayfeld cleans them both up as the Mandalorian slowly recovers, sprawled on the floor.

As their minds clear they hurriedly reach for their clothes, remembering their location.

Mayfeld is pulling on his black jacket when he says, “Maybe it’s about intention. Like, it doesn't count unless you don't need to take off the helmet.”

“I didn’t need to show you my face just now. That wasn’t life or death,” says the Mandalorian, clipping on his cape.

“Maybe not for you, Mando,” chuckles Mayfeld.

The Mandalorian smiles slyly, despite himself. He looks to his helmet, sitting atop the chair. Maybe the Clan of Two can define the Creed how they see fit.

He picks up the helmet, feels the weight of it in his hands, and puts it on.


	2. Epilouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fett disappeared for the rest of that episode so...

Fett wipes the engine oil from his brow as he walks up the gangway to the cargo hold. He stops short at the entrance.  
Behind the metal door are the muffled sounds of moaning.  
Fett's eyes go wide and he presses his lips together firmly to stop himself from smirking. He puts his helmet back on quickly.  
"Best not disturb them," he says to himself, turning about face and walking directly off into the dense foliage around the ship.  
When he returns he tells the Mandalorian, Cara and Fennec that he needed to stretch his legs, but really he needed to stop himself from laughing, lest he give the two men away.  
No wonder they'd taken so long on the mission, he thinks to himself.


End file.
